While the group dwelled on the parallels of recent disasters—each possibility more devastating than the last—Orin reached higher, bubbling with quiet expectation.
Because if he was right—if he truly understood just one, simple, messy truth about the Phoenix—then a grand piece of the puzzle might finally click into place.
Disastrous or not, Phoenixes weren't just fire. They were life, death, and rebirth.
They weren't monsters. They were the cycle itself—a pattern written into the bones of the universe.
And Orin? Orin loved patterns: For it meant a plausibility to unravel secrets.
"Wake up, people!" barked Mimado, cutting through the reverent silence. "We're not seriously taking a kid's word for this, are we?!" He jabbed a bony finger toward Orin. "Mystward," he spat—like it was a slur.
Orin didn't flinch. He never minded the word kid. In fact, he used it tactically—a shield behind which he could play dumb or pull strings unnoticed.
But Mystward? Said like that?
Something hot stirred under his ribs. Not quite anger. Not quite an insult.
Something ancient. Protective.
Something that wanted to smash Mimado's perfect teeth so far in, he'd need a jaw-diver to floss them.
"And… who might you be?" Orin asked calmly, forcing his fists to relax.
He wasn't about to repeat his Valeri mistake. Never underestimate loudmouths. Especially if they knew how to string words together. And this one? A self-declared Specialist. All bone. All ego. Very letter-pen-pal coded.
Orin had received notes from a few like him before, boasting philosophies and polished logic until their Quincil mysteriously dried up when he had the higher ground.
Dead air always followed good arguments—or worse, the truth.
Hem misread Orin's silence as fear, as he leaned in, teasing. "What, didn't hear all his self-boasting since you got here?"
But Hem didn't yet realize the truth: Orin always looked terrified when thinking. That deadpan panic expression was Orin's default face.
A mislead—a mask for strategy.
It gave his enemies a false sense of superiority. Let them feel in control. Let them blabber. And when they slipped, Orin would already be three moves ahead.
"No," Orin finally said, shaking his head as if he had trained it to do so a million times. "I don't store gibberish. It wastes precious space."
Hem caught it... That disconnect between word and expression. And just like that, Hem Lock solved the riddle that was Orin Mystiq.
Unlucky for Mimado, he'd just wandered into Orin's snare.
The group started chuckling. Even Diva hid a grin. Mimado, flustered, tried to salvage it, but his emotions tripped up his logic.
"What does a Mystward do, anyway?" he sneered. "Other than the cleaning and luring we all do?"
Orin smiled inwardly. 'What a mystic noob.'
"We talk to them," he said, casual as breath.
"You mean chant?" Mimado scoffed. "We all chant. That's nothing new."
Orin forced a short laugh, just enough to irk Mimado. Then, he dropped the hook: "Not chant," he said. "Talk."
He let the word linger.
"Like a friend."
Orin wanted to say 'like equals,' but he'd learned.
Wanderers had fragile egos—shatterglass pride. One scratch on their belief system and they'd come apart in loud, flailing pieces.
Worse still was their reasoning: if they believed it, it had to be true—and anything else, no matter how scientific, rational, or historically verified? screamed hocus in their tiny, inconsequential minds. An elaborate trick to shake their precious worldview.
Orin had two default responses for that kind of nonsense: "Weak minds do-be-doing anything to avoid common sense." And: "You are right."
The second always ended the argument quicker. But this time? He cared. So he was grateful Mimado's emotions hadn't yet cornered him into using it.
"Do you know," Orin began, "where and how the Orphus—oops, sorry," he covered his mouth, grinning widely—"the 'chant' came to be?"
Mimado's nostrils flared. Orin could see the vein in his neck twitching.
"That's because of the first Ornyx found in the Market, 'obviously'."
Orin didn't even flinch.
"That's a rumor, right?" Hem interjected, glancing at Orin.
Orin nodded, that maddening smile stretching wider. "Humor me. Rumors have to start somewhere, right?"
"I guess…"
"So," Orin continued, with an exaggerated wave, "the first person to ever find the mysterious Market—Xavier—went in with the heart of a Mystward." He bowed, gesturing proudly to himself. "He wanted to talk. To know the mystica. Not just leech from them like some cosmic parasite."
"Hearsay," snapped Mimado.
"You can't argue with me and hope to win when the topic is mystica," Orin said, clicking his heels together and puffing up with theatrical smugness. "I am a Mystward." He declared, spreading his arms wide.
Even Mimado couldn't dispute that. The origin of Mystwards—Xavier's finding—was etched into every kingdom's flag, every sigil. Foundational truth.
"Just drop it," Orin said, expression flattening. "Take your loss. Or is this—" he gestured at Mimado's flailing argument, "—all you came to prove?"
Mimado opened his mouth to retort—but Hem was already piling on.
"Mimado just set a new bar," Hem muttered, deadpan. "A new standard of low. Losing an argument to a fourteen-year-old."
"Ahem!" Orin raised a hand. "I'm nine."
"Daaamn!" the twins echoed in unison, whistling low.
"You can't be in an institute of mystica at that age," Mimado tried to pivot.
"Neither should I be teaching you the basics, but here we are."
That one almost broke Retterford. He slapped Hem on the back, choking back a laugh. "You got a good one, Hem. Real good. Next stop: Ouroboros." He pointed at Orin with mock pride. "Make me proud, son."
"Wait! You guys are going to Ouroboros Zee?" Orin's eyes flared wide.
"Of course he knows the 'Wonder's' full name," Retterford muttered, chuckling nervously. He leaned close to Hem and whispered, "Keep an eye on the kid."
"You got him here without…" Diva trailed off, her gaze sharpening. "…selective hearing?" she asked.
Hem gave a small nod, frowning.
He is that man's kid, alright, Diva thought with a grim expression. No doubt about that. His control over mystica rivaled a Specialist, his knowledge could humble a certified Hystorian, and in mystic warfare, he outclassed every Warcaster she'd ever fought beside.
Yet... She stepped closer, looming over Orin. "We need to confirm something with your 'Guru' first. Name?"
They stared at each other for a long beat before Diva sighed.
"…You don't remember, do you?"
"Nope!" Orin said, looking away with forced nonchalance.
"For how long have you been studying under a Guru?" Diva pressed. With talents like his, someone had to have been shaping him from early on—or in Orin's case, beating the demons out of him. "Do you even know the difference between a scholar and a guru?"
"Uh… rank?" Orin guessed, scrunching his face.
Diva flipped a hand toward the twins, and they chimed in, rapid-fire: "A scholar teaches everyone. A Guru trains the... exceptions."
"The 'special' ones," they added, pointing subtly at Orin.
Everyone knew 'special' was just a soft way of saying difficult. Not to mention, every one of them had Gurus, not teachers, but to keep things smooth, they all agreed to roll with it.
"Wait, wait—does that mean I'm stuck with her for seven years?" Orin's voice cracked in outrage. "Also…"
"Déjà vu?" Hem offered, expecting the obvious. "Probably 'cause you heard this once, filed it away, and deleted it as 'useless.' I swear, it's like some new mythic disorder."
"I dabble in everything Mystica," Orin said, tapping his head. "Everything else is clutter in my Whispkeep."
"Impressive library," Diva nodded. "But you still need a general section if you ever want to… graduate." She saw the word land—just enough weight to make Orin pause. "Also, you're stuck with a Guru until they say you're ready. It could be tomorrow. Could be a decade."
"What the—damn!" Orin cursed.
Hem shook his head again. "Another déjà vu."
Diva frowned, eyes narrowing on Orin. "I don't think anyone with the title of Guru would let you walk into Ouroboros."
Her tone made it clear: it wasn't a guess. It was a fact.
"Aurochs has already carved my name into the Tablet. No Wanderer is touching my fate." Orin guffawed, voice wild with conviction. "Do your worst. If not you, then another. If I have to crawl back onto that stupid school trip, I SHALL. One way or another, I'll be on Ouroboros before it leaves…"
He chuckled to himself, pacing away from the useless back-and-forth. "…And maybe stay there forever."
He cackled like a madman, snatching up the Arachnivis and jamming it into his pocket. "And you're coming with me, woman," he tossed over his shoulder.
"Fate," Hem chuckled.
"Don't." Diva warned, sharp and fast.
"I never did believe in such nonsense." Hem smiled, eyes tracking the boy. "He's a pain—"
"Don't!" Diva barked, but it was too late.
"—but he's probably our last hope in solving this case."
Retterford quickly stepped in, raising both hands. "Phe—That 'P' is a long shot in a dark room full of Znox, Hem," he said, trying to ease the rising storm.
But Hem's attention had already shifted to D'Las. She hadn't said a word since the incident. Her head bowed. Silent. Still. Shadowed.
"When I first questioned you," Hem began in a soothing voice. "You knew something was off."
D'Las looked up, surprised, uncertain.
"But the Oak didn't say a word to the Fairies. So they didn't know. And when you asked them, they couldn't give you answers."
Hem's gaze swept to Orin, now mimicking a fumbled apology in the distance, trying to win back favor from Valeri with exaggerated dramatics.
"I saw that same look in his eyes… the moment we arrived," Hem continued. "He followed his hunch into the ancient Chamber of Roots."
Gasps cut through the group. All eyes snapped to Orin.
Very few emerged from those places with their sanity intact. None so young.
"I wouldn't have placed your feelings, D'Las… if I hadn't followed him inside."
Hem's voice quieted.
"Something tipped him off. Something below… about what's happening above. And the look on his face when he saw it—glee. It confirmed it. Enough to convince me that an open mind might be our only way through."
Retterford frowned. "What are you getting at?"
"Don't." Diva snapped again.
But Hem didn't stop.
"I'm taking the kid to Ouroboros Zee," he declared. "We'll solve this case in record time."
And this time… he smiled.
Retterford's tone hardened. "You don't have the authority to override a Guru's hold on their student. You do this, and they'll strip you out of society."
His voice dropped to a hiss.
"They'll put you in a place worse than jail."
"I'll ask for permission at Ouroboros," Hem decides. "Either way, the kid is going."
"Why are you so adamant about this decision?" Diva asks, spitting flames.
"Didn't you say the Queen was going to be there?" Hem sneers. "I always felt like I left a lock unturned during our first disagreement."
"Not this again!" Retterford snaps.
"It's about time I stand up for what I believe in... or I might regret not following up on the hunch." Hem nods at D'Las.
"Never again!" D'Las agrees.
"Never again!" Hem smiles alongside her.
For the very first time, Retterford and Diva worked together to solve a common problem—but Hem outranked them at his crime scenes, and before their combined effort could pull off a miracle, he took D'Las's help to board a Centi bound for Ouroboros.
Garry approaches D'Las as she waves them goodbye. In an effort to cheer her up, he asks something stupid: "How did the kid survive?"
"Hmm…" D'Las hums, tilting her head.
"I was on my face the entire time. I didn't see anything," Garry confesses.
"I forgot to ask," D'Las shrieks, dashing after the Arborcentis.
Garry tackles her to the floor before she can alter the entire Halloway path to stop the Centi. "That spell is forbidden!" he yells, struggling to keep her down. "Stop! Both of us will lose our jobs!"
Inside the carriage, as the Arborcentis circled a branch, Hem and Orin stayed upright while the twins spun in circles with the carriage's natural rotation.
"Aren't Sentinels rich?" Orin complains. "Or smart?" He frowns at the twins. "Why aren't we in first class or a private suite?"
"If you can afford one, go ahead." Hem reaches out, and the twin in contact with his hand stops midair. "We're over budget as it is... if we're facing a living, breathing flame." He shudders at the mere thought.
"Some say they have flesh and blood. They just love bursting into flames." Orin extends a leg, and the second twin crashes into it, coming to a halt. "That still doesn't answer my question."
The twins grab some quincil, the Pandit's lessons still fresh in their heads.
"We can teach you!" they say, tossing a coin, which promptly flies out of the spinning window.
"Ah, crap!"
"First of all..." Orin kicks the twin near his leg toward a red vein. Once in contact, his body syncs with the ride, no longer spinning. "Can't you use the saved-up Quincil? Or couldn't we travel in the victim's carriage, claiming inspection or whatever?"
"We don't have the first..." Hem thinks before replying. "And the second is a good plan—but too late to implement."
"So... neither smart nor accomplished in the field," Orin concludes. "Why don't you get off at the next station? I can take it from here. We don't want any more delays, do we?"
Hem swallows his anger and flips the conversation. "Speaking of power..." He offers his badge to Orin. "Use this when alone. It will help bypass any—"
"—Aw, Ornyx!" Orin makes a disgusted face. "I prefer the real deal, thank you very much." His eyes roll into the back of his head.
"Ouroboros is a dangerous place," Hem warns. "A Warcaster is different from a Druid. Do not underestimate them."
"Name one Ornyx—man-made or mystic-forged—stronger than the Mystica themselves," Orin challenges Hem.
"Depends on how one uses what they have. Don't teach me mystic warfare, kid."
Orin leans back, hiding his surprise behind a yawn. "Okay! How would you have dealt with the pollen spell?"
"Don't confuse luck with skill, brat." Hem smirks, catching the flicker of surprise on Orin's face. "We might not carry counter-Ornyx at all times. But just because the ancient Oak neutralized the pollens, turning them into a mere source of protein because you happened to allow it to close a wound..." Hem trails off, confirming his theory based on Orin's reactions.
"You're not completely hopeless," Orin says, surprised by his astonishment, which was crystal clear in Hem's eyes. "There might be hope for you yet." He taps on his lips, thinking, sweating, searching for a comeback to throw Hem into a loop.
"How does a kid get to be this smart?" the twins wonder aloud, handing Orin the perfect ammunition.
"The real question is why are you this dumb—and who in their daze gave you a job?"
The twins stare at Orin as if expecting him to answer the question himself. They glance at each other, confused, until Orin notices.
"Seriously! How did you guys graduate?" Orin asks. The twins shrug in response.
Unable to accept his current losing streak, Orin turns the same baffled look toward Hem, who shrugs alongside the twins.
"Those were dire times."
"Unless the world was about to end..." Orin points at the twins. "...this can't be justified."
Hem was mildly concerned. The subtle hints of emotion on his face may have leaked traces of the hidden disasters of the Third Era. But Orin—who could read mystica like poetry—missed the blatant expression thrown his way. Any leak wouldn't matter until the boy learned to look at wanderers the way he studied the mystical.
A thought crossed Hem's mind as he left Orin to figure out the puzzle. 'Quite my opposite.'
Unable to divide and conquer, Orin began filling the twins' heads with myths and mysteries, slowly but surely pulling them to his side for future showdowns. The worst part was Orin's open manipulation tactics—most of them as plain as a written letter.
Manipulative, self-centered, narrow-minded, and narcissistic. If it weren't for his immense, unnatural knowledge about mystica—and the bit of luck he brought to the table—Hem would have considered the kid a curse he needed to get rid of... preferably at Ouroboros.
The only time Orin resembled an innocent child was when Hem forced him to study the case files. With the twins having recorded their reactions instead of the details on their Whisper Leaves, Hem had to sit beside Orin and transfer the information stored in his own, via a Z'Tablet.
Following Orin's instructions, Hem placed a finger on the miniature Mother Orb of the tablet. After chanting a new spell, all Hem had to do was slowly recall the information while the tiny An'z reshaped their sand within the device to relay it to Orin.
"Neat," Hem whistled.
"Yeah…" Orin muttered, eyeing the Whisper Leaves in the twins' hands. "How are they alive again?"
Hem realized that if Orin caught even a whiff of a mystica-related mystery, he wouldn't let go until it was solved. Yet anything concerning humanity—or its social intricacies—was brushed off as pointless.
Then why the obsession with the Third Era? Hem wondered, still unable to decipher the source of Orin's curiosity.
To test a theory, Hem told Orin a bit about the twins. The kid immediately began to doze off. When Hem shifted the topic to their guru, Orin perked up—only to lose interest in under a minute. Even the sub-races of Wanderers couldn't hold his attention.
Orin dismissed them as "a step higher than Wanderers" solely due to their proximity to mystics. Nothing was interesting about them, in his eyes, only that they were slightly less mundane than the average Wanderer.
Hem didn't have solid points to argue. It might have been a crude assessment, but it wasn't entirely wrong. Wanderers were all the same: flesh and bone, with different aging factors. Everyone—well, maybe except for a Mystward—had limitations on the kinds of mystica they could interact with. Hem knew Wanderers who couldn't use light-attuned mystica like Dreadmornes, and Divas who stayed well clear of nature-attuned mystica.
In the end, they were all Wanderers with a stupid title meant to designate them as something better—titles which opportunists used to segregate, rule, and spread hate.
Except, of course, for a Mystward, who looked down upon everyone equally.
They, as in Orin (the Wanderer closest to a true Mystward), considered Divas, the hotheads of Wanderlust, to be fragile and scared. In his view, they had stopped worshipping the 'P' and now revered only the relics the Mystics left behind. He thought Dreadmornes were soft in the head because of their sluggish blood circulation. Sylvarins? Tree-lovers who never truly understood nature. And so on...
Orin ignored what he deemed inconsequential data—everything related to the case at hand—and instead demanded information about the mystica present on Ouroboros, pestering Hem until he misused his authority to halt the Centi and retrieve the details via a Drifhawk.
Hem had never thought of himself as someone who harbored hate, especially not toward a child. And certainly not the kind of hate he would quietly suppress with patience.
That delusion broke—shattered—when another long-suppressed grudge stood at the foot of Ouroboros, waiting for him.
"My queen."
Hem forced himself to salute—heels clicking together, palm facing outward, and head held high. The perfect military gesture.
The twins followed Hem's lead, though their posture was less refined. Orin, meanwhile, ignored everyone and walked straight past the queen and her guards.
"Hey, kid!" One of the Warcasters called out, reaching to grab him. But an Ornyx on the guard's arm flared, stopping him just in time, as a sudden gust of energy whooshed past.
"What was that?"
"You getting into my personal space?" Orin replied, still walking. "Treasure those fingers... next time, I won't hold back."
"You're in the presence of the queen. Show some respect," another Warcaster growled.
"Respect is earned," Orin said, waving them off without turning around. His voice carried clearly, amplified by the mystica woven around their earlobes. "You don't go around begging for it."
"Stop," the Queen ordered, lifting a hand to halt her guards. "Why are you picking a fight with a child? Is he yours?" She asked, arching a brow at Hem.
"Conan's," Hem replied, relaxing his stance.
"Mystiq?" The Queen gasped.
"Mystward," the Warcasters spat.
"Forgive them," the Queen said, dipping her head slightly. "Ouroboros has them on high alert, that's all."
"I'm with them on this one," Hem countered. "I'm short on time." He bowed deeper. "If I may," he added and turned, walking away before being dismissed.
He had to reach Orin before the boy stirred up more trouble.
The Queen raised a finger at the Warcasters before they could create a scene. They worked for her and had her best interests at heart, yet never seemed to consider her feelings before acting. This dynamic made no sense, but despite all her immense power, the Queen could never change it. Instead, she accepted the premise, handling the damage control as it came.
"Please, relax." The Queen waved down the twins. "New colleagues of Hem?"
The twins were stunned that the Queen knew them, and more so that she was comfortable enough to call Hem by his first name. Their feud never once crossed their minds.
"I need a favor," the Queen said, her expression softening to one that made everyone around her willing to do anything for her.
"Anything for the Queen," the twins saluted in unison.
"Please, you can relax," the Queen laughed, tucking a strand of silver hair behind her pointy ears. Her smile caused their hearts to skip a beat, the twins now ready to submit to her every whim. "One salute is exhausting enough." She waved it off. "Can you keep me in the loop on this case? About Hem, I mean. We got off on the wrong foot, and I want to make things right." She fiddled with her cloud-colored scarf, tearing off a piece as if she were a nervous child about to cry. The action caused everyone nearby to turn their attention to Hem. "Will you?" She fluttered her puppy eyes at the twins.
But instead of their usual response—the person falling to the floor, declaring her the reason for their existence—the twins merely smiled and shook their heads, offering another salute. Their loyalty remained firmly with Hem, even if the request came from the most powerful person in the kingdom they served.
The Warcasters watched the exchange, mouths agape. Their fluctuating emotions left them dazed. No one in history had dared to think differently from their queen, let alone ignore, disrespect, or outright decline her in five minutes.
"Permission to choke an acceptance?" One Warcaster muttered, reaching for his waist.
"Denied," the Queen said firmly, her mouth slightly open in disbelief. This kind of response had never crossed her mind, nor had she ever encountered it in her life.
Maybe my reasons will change their minds, she thought.
Her power, nor the influence of her Ornyx, had worked. She had no choice but to rely on the truth.
"My stupid bet made him miss his guru's funeral," she said, looking away, the weight of the admission settling in. "Our stupid bet blinded us… and since then, he's been trying to prove me wrong, jeopardizing his career on simple cases. I'm scared he'll dig himself too deep, all because of one senseless misstep from long ago."
"Sentinel Lock isn't just our mentor and supervisor," the twins relaxed their salutes. "He is a fellow student. Our bro. If he says there's more to a simple, stupid case, we believe there is. He is Miss Shreya's legacy." They bowed deeply. "Sorry, but being around him is the highest honor we have. We won't do anything to jeper... doze...?" They glanced at each other. "Ruin that chance." They nodded and walked away, leaving the crowd with gaping mouths.
When faced with sudden death and a chance to peer at a new mystica, Orin ignored all the warning bells and took a glance. The queen, her loyal subjects, society, and all other distractions were discarded as insignificant.
"Breathe, kid!" Hem smacked some air back into Orin's lungs.
"Oh, sorry, forgot."
Forgot!? Hem gawked at Orin as he took in the scene before them at the foot of Ouroboros. A massive mountain floating over an abyss seemed insignificant in the face of interacting with a new mystica.
Times like these made Orin's hatred for Valeri flare up, like the sun itself. Because of her stupid restrictions, the dumb wanderers in his zone had locked him into one boring, monotonous area. All the euphoric movements of mystica lost to time...
'And their stupidity,' Orin thought.
"Do not look at—" Hem began to warn, but Orin interjected.
"–I've read the restrictions, and I don't mind if I lose 'my' mind over something I want to do."
Hem forcefully turned Orin's gaze downward with one hand. "When you travel with me, your life is mine. Which means you do as I say, and how I say."
"Why is every adult in my life obsessed with making decisions for me?"
"Because we don't want your stupidity to be the end for all of us."
"Is this about me ignoring the obvious 'myth' of a curse?!" Orin asked, incredulous.
Hem covers Orin's mouth with his Ekanze. The group thanked their lucky stars when they reached Holloway station, where Orin had used the officials' made-up, fake name for the Pyreborn: Phoenix.
Orin tapped twice on Hem's mystica around his mouth, overriding his instructions and loosening the grip of the mystic.
"In case you're wondering," Orin swirled, showing off his flawless features, "no mythical flame has ever burned me alive."
Unable to provoke Hem into an argument, Orin turned toward the twins, trying to lure them into his future ploys.
"Don't look straight at the mystica." Orin slapped the twins awake from their daze. "It'll turn your brain into mush – not that you have one!"
Hem sighed, relieved by Orin's lack of interest in Wanderers. "Kid is focused, if nothing else."
"Focus on Ouroboros." Orin guided their attention. "What mystica does it resemble?" Before the twins could begin their usual rants, he revealed the answer himself. "The Gyroclaw. Can't you see the rock, which can be a shell..." He stopped them from raising their hands. "...A really old shell that grew trees and stuff." The twins nodded and lowered their arms. "Look carefully. Everything is similar, be it the shell, the darkness beneath, or the levitation."
"What about the enormous legs no one can see?" Hem tried to challenge Orin's theory.
Orin smiled, stretching his hands wide, showcasing the mystica 'Aevyrion' between his fingers. "In the boundless expanse where sight dares not linger... what if we can't see them, can't interact with them… yet they exist?"
Aevyrion drifted silently—its form a perpetual enigma. Unseen yet ever-present, it shimmered into existence from the interstices of unseen realms, limbs unfurling in a ballet of fluid metamorphosis. It stretched, grew, then contracted into the void before blooming forth anew, a luminous bud that rapidly ascended into full, awe-inspiring majesty.
"More often than not, the obvious stands true," Hem said, confusing Orin. "Nothing is a grand reveal. All are obvious—simple facts one overlooks."
"Oh! Mine is cooler," Orin said, ignoring Hem as he filled the twins with more controversial theories, mixed with some facts.
On the fateful journey, Aevyrion enveloped the band of wanderers, carrying them with effortless grace. It guided them through ethereal veils where the very fabric of existence folded and refolded—a realm where the nature of being subtly shifted. In that transcendent passage, the shimmering cosmos softened, and the travelers found themselves deposited upon Ouroboros—a sojourn into realms where conventional limits dissolved, and destiny unfolded in perpetual, mysterious flux.
———<>||<>——— Next Page ———<>||<>———